


It Was My Fault

by Sherlock1110



Series: Moods of Greg and Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Greg, Handcuffs, Kneeling, M/M, Punishment, Sherstrade, Spanking, Sub Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 06:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: For the prompt;Looking for a story where Sherlock goes to someone he trusts and asks for a severe spanking to absolve him of the guilt about Mary's death. Any sort of spanking is fine, no preference on implements or anything, you can run with it! Just a long, hard spanking that leads to relief of guilt.Bonus: It's not the first time Sherlock has asked this person to do this.Bonus2: If it's Lestrade that Sherlock turns to.





	It Was My Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr

Sherlock knocked on Greg’s apartment door, his head was low as if he was hiding behind his coat collar. 

It took a moment and there was a small clattering from inside before the door opened. 

“Sherlock,” Greg said simply, then he took the younger man in properly. His shoulders were hunched, his hands stuffed into his pockets, he wouldn’t raise his head or acknowledge him in response. 

It was he DI’s turn to deduce. “Come on, mate,” he opened the door wide and held his arm out. 

Sherlock ducked inside, waited for the door to shut and lock then dropped to his knees. 

Greg watched him for a moment and wanted to cry for the younger man. Last weekend had been horrific. John was being a dick, but how could he say he was overreacting? He’d lost his wife after all. But it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. 

The kneeling man in front of him didn’t seem to agree, but he had to ask anyway. He always asked when Sherlock came to him. 

“Why are you here?”

Head bowed low, Sherlock knew he had to answer. “It was my fault. Sir.”

Greg stepped forward and tipped the detective’s head back with a finger under his chin. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“John won’t talk to me.”

“Have you tried?”

Sherlock nodded once. “He told me to... he... the words fuck off were used.”

Sighing, Greg felt like punching the doctor, instead he rested his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “You feel guilty,” it wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock agreed anyway. 

“Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

“I... I got cocky, sir. I said I’d protect her and I didn’t.”

Greg closed his eyes and took a step back. It was pointless trying to convince the younger man that it had been Mary’s choice. The gun hadn’t been aimed at her, it had been aimed at Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “Right, well. Bedroom, go.”

Keeping his head low, Sherlock crawled towards the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. 

Greg paused at the door and downed the rest of his beer before sighing. The poor bloke. They’d not had to do this for a long time... since he’d come back from Serbia, but that time it felt deserved. 

“Sherlock, get up on the bed, babe.”

The detective shook his head. “N-no.”

Sighing again, Greg stepped into the room and rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s ok.”

Sherlock kept shaking his head before he sobbed. “It’s not ok. Rosie’s-”

“Not the problem right now.” Greg crouched in front of him. “I’m here for you. We don’t have to do this. We can sit and have a drink and talk. John is out of order acting the way-”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered, interrupting. 

“Ok,” the older man conceded. He grabbed the paddle from the bottom draw that stayed there for this very reason. 

“I’ll give you 20 with my hand. 10 with the paddle and then it is done, agreed?”

Sherlock looked up after wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Yes, sir. Agreed.”

“Coat and jacket off.”

He obeyed immediately, and stripped off both, leaving them in a pile beside him on the floor. 

“Up over my lap, then.”

With sluggish movements, the detective did what he was told, clambering over Greg’s lap. 

“Will you keep your hands behind your back or do I need to cuff them there?”

Sherlock turned his face into the duvet. “Cuff them, sir.”

Greg closed his eyes then nodded once. He reached down off the side of the bed, inside Sherlock’s Belstaff pocket and pulled out a set that had been pickpocketed, before snapping them around his wrists. 

“You don’t need to count,” Greg offered, running his hands briefly through Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in relief. 

“You’ll thank me at the end, ok?”

“Yes, sir. Please.”

“Alright. Here goes nothing,” the DI pulled his sleeve up then tugged Sherlock’s trousers down so they piled into a heap at his feet. 

Greg let his palm fall, counting them off in his head. Each one that he dropped, he let it fall in a slightly different position so it covered all of the detective’s arse in an equal spread. 

Sherlock was keeping incredibly quiet and he barely moved, he normally fought the cuffs as if bored, but not this time. 

As Greg let the 20th stroke of his hand fall he rubbed the small of Sherlock’s back with his other hand. “Nearly there,” he whispered. 

Sherlock just nodded his head into the duvet, it was clear he was crying even more. 

Greg hefted the paddle in his hand and gritted his teeth. He’d give the younger man so many cuddles when this was done. As many as he could. 

The detective yelped as the first stroke of the paddle fell, then bit into the duvet to shut himself up. He could take this. 

The DI followed the same pattern with the paddle as he had with his hand in order to ensure he wasn’t going to far in certain places. 

“Good boy,” he soothed as the eighth stroke landed. His hands had balled into fists behind his back, but that was as far as his reaction went. He’d made no more noise. 

When the 10th landed, Greg threw the paddle onto the unit and managed to spin Sherlock over, but so his butt avoided his lap. “Good boy. Good, good boy. You took that so well,” he whispered, brushing sweaty curls from his face. “Do you feel better now?”

There was a long pause before Sherlock responded, but then he nodded once, burying his head into the crook of the older man’s neck. 

“Good. I’m glad it worked.” 

Sherlock stayed on Greg’s lap for a long time before he eventually fell asleep where he was, only sniffling quietly to himself. 

***

When Sherlock awoke the following morning, he was embarrassed to see he’d curled into Greg. 

The DI had tucked Sherlock in and climbed in bed beside him when he realised he’d fallen asleep. 

Sherlock tried to move, but groaned, realising how much his arse throbbed. It was a reminder.

“You don’t have to get up.” He hadn’t realised Greg was awake, it couldn’t have been that late in the morning. 

“I should go.”

“Sherlock,” Greg shifted slightly and dropped his hand on his back, “Please don’t leave.”

“What?”

“This. Us.” He got to his feet and stared at the window for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re right. You should go if you-“

Sherlock rolled over to look up at the older man, “You feel the same way.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I hate leaving, Greg. After. I hate coming here when I feel like shit rather than when I feel good.”

The DI sat on the edge of the bed. “You mean that, don’t you?”

When Sherlock nodded, Greg pulled him to his chest, wrapping both arms around him and holding him tight.


End file.
